


Firsts

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel, Simon and Garfunkel - Fandom
Genre: 5+1 Things, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, M/M, Teen Romance, Teenage Dorks, Teenagers, paul is once again oblivious, they are babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24325027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: Five times Paul Simon is the first at doing things, and one time he isn't.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon, Paul Simon/Art Garfunkel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	Firsts

  
Soon after striking up a friendship with a dark-haired boy named Paul, who came up to him one day after singing practice and told him they had quite a few things in common, so "could they maybe hang out, and wouldn't it be great if Art could also help Paul with his math homework from now on too?" Art learned about Paul's competitiveness. The thing with Paul was that he always had a knack for being the best or the first at doing something, anything. Granted, it didn't always start out as a race, even though Art sometimes felt he was in a constant baseball match with Paul. One in which each time he felt he finally had a decent grip on the bat, Paul snatched it out of his hand, touched it to the ball with a dull clang and then proceeded to hit a homerun. Some things just happened by a stroke of luck, other events happened in the natural order of things: Paul simply was and would always be three weeks and 2 days older than him, so if there was anything to do with age restrictions, he knew that Paul could and would pull the seniority card without fail. But anything other than that, and Paul just...went for it. Art would like to think that it was the many other things he had going for himself - his height, his hair, his angelic voice - that caused Paul to overcompensate. Still, Paul never seemed to hold those things against him and continued to be just...Paul, master of firsts. 

**1\. October 1953**

"I'm the oldest," Paul stated, one day before his twelfth birthday. "That means that in a couple of years I'll get my driver's license earlier than you."

"Yes, you are," Art answered, raising one eyebrow. "By 23 days. Are you planning on driving somewhere on your own in those 23 days?" 

"I don't know," Paul shrugged. "Not particularly." 

"Then why did you bring it up?" Art asked, and turned his gaze back to his homework, crossing out the number 23 he had just absent-mindedly scribbled down. 

"Never mind," Paul complained. "Whatever. I'll just always be older than you."

"Tell me again when you're counting your wrinkles. You'll always have 23 more than I do."

Paul scowled, followed by: "Ugh, you're annoying, leave me alone." 

"That's kind of hard to do, since you are in _my_ bedroom," Art said, matter-of-factly. Art reached in his pocket and slid one of the candies with a purple wrapper to Paul, which Art knew to be Paul's uncontested favourite flavour of caramels. All was forgiven. 

  
**2\. October 1954**

"Do you remember where you were when you heard Elvis the first time, Artie?" Paul asked Art, when they were walking from school to Paul's house on a Friday evening. As an afterthought, Paul started humming 'That's Alright', trying to match his walking tempo to the rhythm of the song. 

"What do you mean, where was I? You _told_ me to listen to the song. Remember how I snuck downstairs after dark to turn on the radio in hopes of it coming on? My mom wasn't too happy when she caught me," he finished. "Or have you forgotten that I was grounded for a week and you had to do your homework by yourself?"

Paul was nearly skipping at this point. His three strides, trying to keep up with Art's two. Art had the advantage of longer legs. "Oh...yeah," he said. 

"Do you think my legs will fall off faster than yours?" Paul continued, without taking a look at Art's incredulous face. "I mean, they have to work harder."

Art smacked him on the head. "Your head will fall off because your brain will dry out and shrink to the size of a pea," he warned. 

Laughing, Paul rubbed the back of his head and continued hopping through 70th Street. 

When they climbed the steps of the front porch of Paul's house, and spilled through the door, giggling, wondering if people with pea-sized brains existed, they met Paul's mom in the hallway. "Hi, Mrs. Simon," Art said gleefully. Mrs. Simon liked him at least, unlike her eldest son, who was a pain in his butt. Mrs. Simon always called him 'Arthur' and slipped him an extra cookie when she brought them snacks in Paul's bedroom. "Don't you think he's already grown enough, ma?" Paul had once remarked, looking from his plate to Art's and back. 

"Paul," his mother said when they started climbing the stairs, "Remember. Homework first, come Monday, okay?" She smiled. 

"Uh, yeah," Paul answered, turning his head and frowning at her remark. They always made sure to do their homework before going out for baseball practice or before they put their school books away and started singing together. 

But when Paul reached the top of the stairs and saw through the open door what was in his bedroom, he pushed Art, coming up behind him on the stairs, aside and ran back down, screaming. 

Art, holding the handrail tightly, took a cautious peek.

She was a beauty. Shiny and sleek, well-rounded, mahogany curves. 

Art climbed the last few steps and inched closer until he was in the doorway of Paul's room. Paul stomped back up the stairs behind him and pushed Art forward until they were both inside the room, half panting, staring at the perfect body and the steel strings of the guitar. 

"My first guitar," said Paul reverently. He took another step forward and slid to his knees in front of the instrument, looking at it, but not touching. 

"How many are you planning on getting?" Art asked, betraying the tiniest touch of envy in his voice. 

"Art, I'll be exactly like Elvis! When I'm rich and famous, I'll be able to buy as many guitars as I want."

Art grumbled. "You won't be going anywhere without me, mister."

He didn't think Paul heard, as Paul stretched his arm and let his hand adoringly touch the guitar's body. He caressed the wooden neck and rubbed the instrument's sleek, shiny curves. He slid his fingers down the steel strings cautiously, as if afraid he was going to cut himself. 

Art swallowed, enthralled by the movements of Paul's hands fondling the meandering lines of the hand-carved wooden patterns. 

"Can I..." Art hesitated. "Can I hold it for a second?" 

Art could have been mistaken, but for the smallest of moments there seemed to be a sliver of hesitation behind Paul's eyes, as if he didn't want his best friend to touch his most prized possession. It was gone in an instant, though, and Paul, grinning with excitement, held out the guitar to Art's waiting hands. 

That evening, Art begged his parents for a guitar too. But they refused. "Your voice is your instrument, honey," his mom said and patted his head. 

  
**3.1956**

Like every other day, Paul and Art hung out in Art's bedroom, both sitting on Art's bed with their knees pulled up, scribbling the answers to the math questions in their notebooks, now and again leaning over to the other person to take a peek at what they were writing. 

"How on earth did you get 28 as an answer to question 5?" Art spoke up, frowning. Usually he was a human calculator, christened as such by Paul one evening prior, when Paul had all but thrown his coursebook in the corner of the room, frustrated, and Art had picked it back up, calmly explaining things and guiding Paul to a more satisfactory approach of actually finishing up the homework task. This time the numbers just didn't seem to add up. 

"Artie, I kissed a girl," Paul replied. 

Art blinked, unsure of the correlation, a pang of apprehension twisting in his gut. "Oh?" was all he managed. 

Paul looked at him expectantly. Was he supposed to ask Paul to elaborate? Was he supposed to feign enthousiasm? 

He didn't want to disappoint Paul, so his mouth formed the words for him. "Who did you kiss? How did it go?"

"Sophie. She's a year above us. And it was....strange," Paul contemplated. "But I'm guessing it went allright. She didn't run, at least." He giggled. 

"But how did you know what to do?" Art asked, uneducated in the matter. He didn't deem his lack of experience a surprise, nor a necessity to remedy right away, knowing he was more timid than Paul, who was brazen and dauntless in nearly everything that he did. 

"I just did it. I mean, it's not that hard to do," Paul answered. 

"But, isn't there a...a...an approach you need to know about?" Art pressed on. 

"An _approach_? What, like a technique?" Paul chuckled. "The only thing you need to remember is don't pull back immediately when you feel tongue. That was so...wet," he continued. "But other than that, there's no sophisticated manual to go through." 

Art stared at Paul's mouth and, unconsciously, licked his lips. 

"Ha!" Paul yelled. "Sophi-sticated. Did you hear what I just did?" he grinned, broadly, proud of himself for the pun.

"Yeah, I guess..." Art sighed, shoulder's hunched. 

"Don't worry, big boy," Paul soothed, patting Art's knee. "Your time will come. I'll tell you if I find out anything more noteworthy that you should know about before you try it."

Art thought about it, but he didn't feel like trying to kiss a girl. Moreover, he didn't think he liked the thought of Paul kissing girls very much, either. 

**4\. August 1957**

"Artieeeee," Paul yelled into the telephone. Art had to hold the receiver away from his ear lest he turned deaf. It would certainly be detrimental to their harmonising game if he couldn't hear a note Paul was singing. Although, on the other hand, tuning out Paul Simon from time to time maybe wasn't such a bad idea either. 

"Come to my house right this second!" Paul continued to yell. 

"What, why? What's happened?"

"Art....my dad...he bought a tv!" 

"He did what?"

"I know, right? A tv, can you believe it? Finally! Come over so we can see what's on it."

"I'll be right there," Art said into the receiver.

"Art!!!" Paul kept on shrieking.

"God, what?" Art said, exasperated.

"Bring candy," Paul screeched, before hanging up.

Ten minutes later, his pants' pockets bulging with purple-foiled caramels, Art found himself staring at the black and white screen in the Simons' living room, eyes round like saucers. What a magical device! And Paul owned one! Well, at least his parents did. 

Paul had begged his parents if he could watch the 'American Bandstand' episode that was on tonight, and had offered to do the dishes for an entire month if he could. Paul's mother's eyebrow had apparently shot up, looking pointedly at his father, and the latter had reluctantly agreed. "Don't ruin it boy, or you'll do more than washing dishes for the rest of your life," he had warned. Paul had also bribed Eddie to let them watch undisturbed, but Paul hadn't wanted to say what the sacrifice had been for Eddie's absence. 

"Come on," Paul said, "it's on in 5 minutes." 

The screen showed an ad for canned meat. 

"You boys need anything?" Paul's mother asked, sticking her head through the living room door. 

"Thanks mom, we're good," said Paul, munching on the sweets Art brought, and handing Art a soda from the fridge. He plopped himself down on his butt in front of the couch, nestling between Art's knees. 

Art didn't know if he should be more excited about Dick Clark appearing on the screen, or the feeling of Paul's body against his legs. Both, he decided.

Paul turned around, arm slung around Art's leg, and looked at him. "We just have to get 'Hey Schoolgirl' on the show, Art. We _have_ to, somehow," he said urgently. 

"We will," Art said, gripping Paul's shoulders. It was easier to believe such a thing could happen, with Paul invading his personal space like that.

  
**5\. January 1958**

After Paul had, in fact, managed to actually get Tom and Jerry to perform on American Bandstand, things had definitely changed. 

Art and Paul were famous now, in school. Classmates curiously came up to them, congratulating them on their feat, and girls, god, girls were _swarming_. 

Art, feigning interest in them, was glad when he reached his house unscathed after school. 

Paul basked in all the attention, of course. And Art should have known that when Paul announced in a whisper, one evening in his bedroom, "I think I might do it soon, Artie," he wasn't referencing the gold fish he was planning on winning at the local fun fair. 

"Ummm...do what?"

" _It_."

Art winced. "Surely you don't mean..." but Paul was nodding and wiggling his eyebrows. 

"Ewwwww," said Art. "I could have lived without knowing that. Don't tell me that!" he admonished. 

"But...."

"Not another word, Simon!"

Art cried himself to sleep that night, his pillow wet from tears insuppressibly spilling from his eyes. He used his hand to muffle the sounds of his sobs. And the next day, when Paul inquired after the cause of his red-rimmed eyes, he lied and made up a story about how it must still be from the onions he helped his mom cut the night before. 

  
**Summer of 1958**

Art had noticed the stares. The glances that Paul shot at him, from the other side of the classroom. Paul seemed to have understood that bragging about losing his virginity was not something that brought joy to his friend and had not mentioned it again. 

In fact, his interactions with Art had become a bit more subdued than normal ever since that night. One might say, a bit sullen even, no longer yelling in Art's ears or pulling his arm every two seconds. Art would have started to miss the loud presence his friend normally exuded, if instead hadn't come long, pondering looks and subtle touches here and there, which, Art assumed, were meant as a silent apology for upsetting him. 

He didn't know whether to be relieved or anxious about the new modus operandi. Each time Paul's fingers fluttered over his arm, Art felt like either smacking something - maybe smacking _Paul_ would do the trick - or dryheaving into his school bag. 

He would have to say something to Paul eventually, tell him to stop doing that, before this got out of hand. Before he would say something stupid or worse, _do_ something idiotic and ruin everything. 

Which is why he found Paul after graduation and asked, a slightly hysterical note in his voice, if they could talk. 

Paul nodded, kind of demurely for his doing, and at least had the decency to wait until they were in the safety and privacy of Art's bedroom before announcing in a soft voice: "Actually, I wanted to tell you something too. Can I go first?" 

Of _fucking_ course Paul wanted to go first. At least this hadn't changed. Paul always wanted to be the first in everything, didn't he? 

Still, Art waved his hand in some kind of "go on then" gesture. 

Paul cast his eyes downward and took a deep breath. "I uh...I guess I realized. That I umm...I mean we...I. Artie, I hope I didn't misread this whole thing, misread _you_ , and I know it's wrong, and we probably shouldn't, but uh, I guess I ...I maybe, possibly, started to feel..."

Suddenly, Art knew what Paul was about to say. He would have been kind of charmed by the peculiarity of Paul being a stuttering mess in front of him, had he been any less worked up about the state of his mind for the past few years and Paul now seemingly taking credit for being the first to having similar feelings, too. And he just _couldn't_ have it. He held up his hand, and said "Paul, I am warning you. Stop talking right now."

And Paul, for once in his life, obliged, eyes wide open and mouth tightly shut, looking at Art like a whipped dog. 

" _You_ do not get to do that," Art continued. "You do not get to win. Not this time."

Paul, mortified, sunk further into the pillows. "But I thought..?"

"I said shut up," Art repeated. Then, he pulled himself up on his knees and towered over Paul more than on any other day. " _I_ loved you _first_. And I'll have you know, Paul Simon," Art said, before he closed the distance between them to press his lips to Paul's, "that I'll be the one kissing you first."

It lasted all but 20 seconds, before: "If I may have the last word here?" Paul mumbled after reluctantly pulling back and disentangling his fingers from Art's hair

Art's right eyebrow shot up, but he was grinning all the same, lips tingling and surprisingly still working. Paul tasted like the candy with the purple wrappers he was so crazy about. 

"I didn't do it, you know." 

"Did what?" Art asked. 

"For god's sake, Artie," Paul chuckled, but started blushing all the same. "Do I have to spell it out for you again?"

"Oh," said Art, "are you saying I'd be your...?" He hesitated.

" _First,_ " Paul finished the sentence, and continued to kiss the boy in front of him. 

**Author's Note:**

> I get my ideas for fic at the craziest times. This came to me as I was chopping up garlic to make lunch. I contemplated using garlic somewhere in the fic, but eventually decided against it. 
> 
> Allright, I'll also admit that it was inspired by One Direction's song 'Loved You First'.
> 
> Come and say hi on [tumblr!](https://froyo-ravioli.tumblr.com/post/619720466218795008/another-fic-teenage-boys-enjoy-firsts)


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